The rain was a persistent, gray curtain over the city, turning the late afternoon into a dreary smear of headlights and dripping awnings. Abby Winters pulled the collar of her trench coat tighter, her reflection a ghost in the dark glass of the café window. Inside, nestled between a vintage bookshop and a closed-down tailor, sat Mya.
“You’re late,” Mya said. Her voice was low, a cello note in the quiet hum of the café. She didn’t look up from stirring her tea. abby winters mya
“One more thing,” Mya said as Abby reached the door. “The partner you lost in Prague. Her name was Anya. She wasn’t killed in the fire. She’s the one running the auction.” The rain was a persistent, gray curtain over
Abby pushed the door open, a small bell jingling a tinny alarm. She slid into the booth across from Mya. The air smelled of burnt espresso and old wood. “You’re late,” Mya said
